All I Want
by PossiblyInsane
Summary: An insight into Doggett's infatuated brain...


Title: All I Want

Author: PossiblyInsane

Classification: DDR, Doggett-angst

Spoilers: Eh, not really…

Timeline: Post-XF (as in season 9)

Disclaimer: I own neither John nor Monica (Cause if I did…well…lets just say this show would have to be for *mature* audiences.)

Summary: Just fluff. Couldn't help myself

Notes: Well…I'm not sure but this could be OOC…I mean…I don't know, just go and read the darn thing. Oh, and enjoy. Comment. Laugh. Cry. Laugh at me more. 

*~*~*~*~*

All I Want

          Everyday it's the same thing. Ever since joining the X-Files, I've fallen into this dull, repetitive routine. It seems all I am doing is just going through the motions. I go to work, investigate a case, and then look forward to the endless paper work that invades my desk. In the beginning it wasn't like this. I was assigned to the X-Files to find Mulder and partnered with Scully. It seemed to be worth it back then. But now…now it's a never-ending cycle. One I sometimes wish I could just end. As Scully once said to Mulder, I just wanna stop and get out of the car.

          Since Scully left the X-Files not too long ago to be with Mulder, it wasn't so bad. I had a partner of my own and we were doing well. Agent Reyes. Monica. But now, I'm not so sure. I'm continually assaulted with the image of her, day in and day out. She's always here, right within my grasp, yet I haven't a clue how to reach out and grab her. I have a feeling she wouldn't permit me to, had I gathered up some form of courage to do so. 

          I suppose because she hasn't a clue that I'm in love with her. Deeply, completely, madly in love with her. These past few months have been the worst. It's just her, me, and an absurd X-File that will commonly lead us on a goose chase. My affections for them are due to the pride and joy Monica takes to working on them. If not for her, I would've undoubtedly asked to have been reassigned. Until Monica leaves this basement, I'm staying right where I am. I'll fight werewolves, demons, and a government conspiracy until I die just as long as I can do it with her. Not that she has any idea of my motives. 

          Once I thought I had my chance to tell her. I almost would've, had she believed I wasn't drunk. I suppose when I'm intoxicated is the only time I've gathered the courage to even hint at these feelings that weigh my heart down. It was a cool fall Friday night, one which called for spending the night out. So, after work Monica and I decided to go out for dinner, then head back to her place. Together. 

          While we ate, I thought I'd be able to tell her. I figured then was as a good a time as ever. As I opened my mouth to speak, I snapped it shut abruptly. What would I have said? For all those endless nights imaging us together, I never thought up those magical words that would tell her about all these scattered emotions that hide behind my blue, hard eyes. So there I sat, dumbfounded. _"Monica, I love you. I have for quite some time now, but I haven't had the courage to tell you."  Sounded good, so I opened my mouth again, but still nothing came out. Not noticing the trouble I was having, she brought up another subject, and the chatter continued, yet the words never strayed far from my head. For the rest of the meal my conscious, as well as my heart yelled at me for not being man enough, but I tried to ignore it._

         After dinner we headed back to her house. We stayed up late watching movies, had a couple of beers, and discussed work. Around two the last movie ended, and I got ready to leave. As Monica walked me to the door, I stumbled slightly, the beers suddenly taking their effect on my motor functions. My vision started to blur and the room spinned slightly. I would've fallen if she hadn't caught me. She slipped her hands around my waist, and allowed me to rest some of my weight onto her. We were facing each other, and I draped my arms over her shoulder. I tired to steady myself by pushing on her back, inadvertently pulling her closer to me. My face was a mere inch from the top of her head, and the fragrance of her shampoo and an aroma that is hers alone assaulted my senses. I breathe in deeply, trying to memorize the smell. 

          I tensed when I realized that my body was still pressed tightly against hers, but what took my by surprise was that she wasn't resisting. I found her arms had wrapped themselves around my waist, holding me up and pressing closer to me still. Her face was so close to my chest, and I knew she could hear the sound of my heart beating. To an observer it looked like we were hugging, and I closed my eyes and imagined that's what we were doing. Slowly she pulled away slightly and looked up at me.

          "John?" She said it softly, with a trace of concern. "You okay to drive?" 

          I looked down at her and saw something in her eyes. To this day I don't know what emotion I was reading. I had hoped it was love, or desire, or anything to that effect, but knowing her it was just concern, maybe a touch of humility or bewilderment. When I didn't answer right away she reached her face up to me closer and my breath hitched. Oh how I wished she was going to kiss me. To feel her soft lips pressed against mine, to taste them I would've done anything. Just once. 

          But instead, she just asked, "John, you just wanna stay here the night?" It took me by surprise, hearing words I'd only dreamed about. I wanted to smile, to squeeze her tightly, and capture her mouth with mine. I looked down at her, and was about to agree tenderly, when I saw it. Not love, not wanting, not even a smile. Just concern. Pure concern for her platonic working partner who she didn't want to die due to drunk driving. I gathered it all from her expression, and I felt my heart deflate.

          "Where?" My question sounded slurred even to myself, but I was rewarded with a smile.

          "Well the couch isn't the most welcoming place to sleep, but if you're going to be uncomfortable, you can have the bed."

           I could stay in her place for the night. This was not an offer for me to stay with _her._ While she gave up her couch for me, images of holding her all night bounced around my head. I hid the utter disappointment that crushed my heart by replying quietly.

          "No, I got the couch." She led me back to the couch, then brought me a pillow and a blanket. Once I was comfortable, she sat down next to me. She was so close, I could smell her again. God. What this women does to me. Yet, she hasn't the slightest idea. 

          She turned her head towards me, and placed a hand on my cheek. Her touch was warm, and it sent a tingle down my spine. I watched her as she watched me, and we sat in a comfortable silence. Time seemed to freeze. It was just her and me. Me and her. Doggett and Reyes. John and Monica. At that moment I wanted to take her into my arms and never let go. If only she knew. All too soon her hand left my cheek, and the coldness that replaced it didn't compare to her soft, silky hands. She was still looking at me, and her face broke out into a smile.

          "What are you staring at John?" She said it teasingly, and instead of answering right away I leaned back against the couch, then reached out to touch her hair. It was dark and smooth, the strands danced between my fingers as I stroked them lightly. I returned my gaze back to her.

          "You are so beautiful Monica." Her eyes widened slightly, and she pulled away from my touch. Instead of rewarding me with another smile of hers, I swear I saw her lower lip tremble and her eyes had distinct moisture to them. She didn't give me enough time to study her response; she leaned towards me and lightly kissed the spot on my check where her hand had been.

          "Oh John, you're drunk." She whispered it softly, with hints of despair and humor. What she meant by it, I still don't know. Before I could reply, she got up, said a quick goodnight, and disappeared into her room. I fell asleep that night confused, drunk, and in love. 

          When I woke the next morning, sobriety hit me full force, as well as that pang of love I felt whenever I thought about Mon. I heard her get dressed, ready for a sunny Saturday. We ate a breakfast of eggs, bagels, and coffee together, yet neither of use spoke about the previous night. Maybe she assumed I wouldn't remember. 

          To this day I haven't figured out how that statement hurt her so. I just want to be with her, forever. She's helped me so much, yet she doesn't know how I adore her. Yet no matter how much I hope and pray, I know deep down she doesn't want me. I'm a broken, used up man. My divorce says something about my commitment, and Luke's death showed her how weak I am behind this gruff façade. She knows the real me, and she is probably looking for something completely different. The only good that has come out of this is that she has become my best friend. As long as I have her friendship, I can tell myself there's always hope. Hope for the impossible. And so, thoughts of her bring me to this basement. I'm doing it all just to be with her. And that makes those X-Files all worth it.


End file.
